


i want to get stuck and be golden in your memory

by blackwood (transjon)



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Fluff, Getting Together, Hand Jobs, Kissing, M/M, Oral Sex, Pre-Series, martin....repressed.....tim refuses to let him be repressed, wingman sasha james strikes again
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-19
Updated: 2020-04-19
Packaged: 2021-02-26 17:30:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,222
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23601910
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/transjon/pseuds/blackwood
Summary: “We shouldn’t,” Martin exhales. He’s close enough for his breath to tickle Tim’s lips. He smells like mint.“No,” Tim agrees. He can feel strands of Martin’s hair touch his forehead. “But that’s not an answer.”Martin’s gaze flickers down to his lips and then up to his eyes again. “No,” he says, “no it’s not.”
Relationships: Martin Blackwood/Tim Stoker, Sasha James & Tim Stoker
Comments: 18
Kudos: 127
Collections: Smut 4 Smut 2020





	i want to get stuck and be golden in your memory

**Author's Note:**

  * For [spacehopper](https://archiveofourown.org/users/spacehopper/gifts).

> title is from wams by fall out boy!
> 
> don't you ever get tired of being sad? dont you just want to write something happy?
> 
> @ spacehopper – WOW it took me so long to get to the sexy part that was NOT planned. ah, i hope this satisfies what you asked for? i was going to make this way, way longer and more plot heavy, plus it was supposed to have a slightly darker tone but that ended up not happening im sorry!!

“Stop staring at him,” Sasha hisses into his ear. “Someone’s going to notice.”

Tim jumps in surprise. “I’m not _staring._”

“Yes you are. You’re pining and longing and sighing to yourself and you are _staring._”

Tim gasps in mock horror. “I am doing no such thing!”

“You’re an open book, Stoker, and what I’m reading right now is a primary school crush, and it’s sickeningly cute.”

There’s a wicked look in Sasha’s eyes, and when Tim gapes at her in disbelief she giggles openly.

“What’s funny?” Martin asks from across the room, the usual concerned, desperate-for-approval puppy dog look in his eyes. 

“Tim stapled himself in the finger,” Sasha says immediately. Tim rolls his eyes. 

Martin looks horrified, and goes “that’s not _funny_ – Tim, are you okay?” He’s halfway up from his seat by the time Tim opens his mouth, and his “I’m okay” comes out a little strangled.

“Yeah,” Sasha chirps, kicking Tim in the shin under the table lightly, “he’s not even bleeding.”

Tim kicks her back. Sasha puts her foot on top of Tim’s. Martin sits back down. “Alright,” he says, “be careful!”

“Will do,” Tim says. Sasha knocks her shoulder into his as soon as Martin turns his attention back to the pile of papers in front of him, brow furrowed, and Tim scowls at her. She smiles back at him, bright and toothy and wide, and Tim frowns at her as hard as he can.

–

It’s funny because Tim doesn’t have a crush, actually. What he does have is a certain kind of fascination, and a vague desire to befriend him, maybe. At least that’s what he thinks it is. He doesn’t really feel like examining it more than that. 

It’s just that him and Sasha are friends, they’ve _been_ friends, but Martin, despite having been there for a while now, hasn’t really shown any interest in joining their friendship. Tim wants to change that, he guesses – he doesn’t want there to be cliques. He doesn’t want to exclude anyone. Martin’s cool, and seems – not lonely, he doesn’t want to be presumptuous, but like he could use a friend. More friends. Tim is good at that, at least. 

He guesses there’s not much of an external difference for anyone to tell. He can imagine how it might look to Sasha. He wonders what it looks like to Martin. He looks up at Martin, deep in thought, flipping through a book at his desk, and smiles. 

–

A few days after Jon’s promotion gets officialized Sasha goes get them all food. 

(It’s been an open secret for a few weeks now but Monday they’d watched Jon walk out of Elias’ office with a stack of papers in his hand, a dazed look on his face, and a few seconds later Elias had appeared at the doorway to watch Jon walk down the hall. When Jon’d passed the three of them he’d made a face that hadn’t been a grimace, or a smile, or a look of abject horror, although you could make an argument for each one of them. Tim hadn’t scowled back at him, but he had wanted to.)

Martin watches her go, sensible heels clacking on the linoleum, and when her footsteps fade out of his earshot he turns to face Tim. 

“She seems upset,” Martin says quietly. Tim swivels in his chair with a little too much aggression, and the chair squeaks threateningly.

“Because this is bullshit,” Tim says, quite loudly over the squeaking. Martin makes a vaguely pained face.

“What did you want him to do? Turn down the job?”

Tim throws up his hands, and then drops them back down, thinking better of it. “No, of course not. That would’ve been stupid. But you and me both know it should’ve been Sasha.”

“Sure,” Martin says blandly. 

“What, you disagree?”

“No, I – I just don’t want to pick sides like that.”

“You know that’s bullshit.” And it is – they all know this isn’t just something to pick sides on. It’s not a petty squabble. This is Sasha’s job. This is their job, and sure, neither of them is qualified, neither of them should’ve gotten that job, but _Sasha_ is, Sasha should have. And, Tim thinks bitterly, having an incompetent boss impacts them, as well. 

“He’s your _friend_.”

“Right.” Because maybe he is. Maybe he isn’t. 

“Tim.”

“Don’t _Tim_ me. He’s our boss now, and you’re not friends with your boss. That’s just how it works.”

“Would you think that if it was Sasha?”

Tim makes a face. “Just because you have a crush doesn’t mean you can’t admit that he shouldn’t have that job.”

Martin’s lips twitch like he wants to call him out on this. Tim would deserve it, and he would deserve it for bringing whatever innocent thing Martin has for Jon into this on its own as well. He’s handed Martin a double whammy of low-blow deflection and Martin has looked at it and decided to ignore it. “Does it matter?”

“What?”

“If I admit it or not. He has the job. If Elias decided he wanted the job to go to Jon I can’t see why he would offer it to Sasha if he turned it down now. He knows Sasha’s more qualified. He knows it should be Sasha. If it went to Jon because of – because of sexism, or because he likes Jon better, or because, whatever reason, if Jon turned it down don’t you think he would’ve just offered to someone else equally unqualified?”

Tim makes a face. It’s a point, he guesses. “Right,” he says, and then, quietly, facing the stack of papers on his desk again, “it’s just not right.”

“No,” Martin agrees, and some of the tension deflates out of him like a popped balloon. “No, it’s not.” 

Tim staples through his stack of papers without bothering to make sure they’re all turned the same way, let alone in the right order. “Right,” he says, not sure what else to say. 

When he looks up at Martin he’s slightly flushed, and when he notices Tim looking he looks away quickly. Tim smiles (slightly, gently, apologetically –), and Martin, taking another look at him, smiles back, unsure and light.

–

“Hey, Martin,” Sasha calls out. Tim, by the door, turns to look. He’s more than ready to leave. This place feels like dust in his hair. There probably is some real dust in his hair, actually, and not just the metaphorical dust that this building seems to exude with its energy alone. Wouldn’t be the first time he’d come home with dust on his clothes for no reason.

“Yeah?” Martin says.

“We’re going out for drinks later,” she says. “Want to come with?”

And the way Martin’s eyes light up when he says “oh! Yeah, sure – let me just collect my things, ah, hold on,” – 

–

It’s warm. It’s hot, actually, sticky and hot, and the air is heavy with how little oxygen is left over after filtering through so many lungs. The music is loud and Martin keeps moving closer to Tim, almost like he’s not aware of doing it. 

They’d done a few songs together, earlier, and Tim’d been surprised that he hadn’t needed to coax Martin into it, that when Tim’d said “me and Sasha are going to do a duet, do you want to –” Martin had cut him off to go “yes!” eagerly enough that his voice had gotten loud enough to carry clearly over the music and general chatter. 

After, they’d emerged from the little stage sweaty and smiling wide, and Sasha, on the dance floor, had shaken her head at the both of them, and gone “amateurs,” and then she’d signed up for a solo. Tim’d just smiled crookedly at her. This truth-rooted confidence. He sometimes forgets how much he adores her. She passes them on the way to pick up the mic when her song is called, and Tim sticks out his tongue at her. She crosses her eyes and blows a raspberry, and Martin, next to Tim, laughs out loud. 

So:

Sasha sings her solo. Martin leans into Tim’s shoulder almost like he doesn’t notice doing it at all, and bops his head along to the song, and when Sasha climbs back down to some light applause she looks at him with an amused face. Tim doesn’t care enough to tell her off. He wraps an arm around Martin’s waist to better support him, and Martin, reflexively, wraps his own around Tim’s in return. 

He’s warm and soft and Tim thinks, _this is nice._ Sasha catches his eye, and makes a kissy face, and Tim, despite himself, feels himself blush. 

He looks away fast enough to avoid seeing what kind of a smug face Sasha’d made in response to _that_. 

–

In the Archives not much changes, except that they now sit together in a little clump, papers and books and folders and laptops scattered around them, hands reaching over arms to reach tape and staplers and pens. Sasha keeps kicking Tim in the shins. Tim keeps growling at her under his breath. Martin keeps chewing on the end of his pencil, and looking cute, and –

–

Okay, _maybe_ Tim finds him attractive. But he does _not_ have a crush on him.

–

It’s a few weeks later.

They’ve been alone in the break room for barely ten minutes when Martin pushes himself into Tim’s personal space in his usual deceptively innocent, nonchalant way. On his face is an unsure look but his body language is confident. Tim drops his arms to his sides and makes eye contact. He feels like a dog. He knows nothing about dog body language. 

“Hey,” he says, voice low. “What’s up?”

Martin smiles, sweet and easy, and pulls away just a little bit. “Hi,” he says. 

Tim takes a step forward. He feels almost hypnotized. Is that on purpose? Did Martin just trick him into doing that? Get so close and then pull away to make Tim follow him? The idea makes him smile, a little. Innocent and oblivious, bull_shit_ –

“Do you want to –” 

He stops. Swallows. “Are we going to kiss?” he settles on. It doesn’t sound very smooth, but he usually has more time than this to plan his pick up lines. Better to get straight to the point. No telling when someone’s going to open the door.

“We shouldn’t,” Martin exhales. He’s close enough for his breath to tickle Tim’s lips. He smells like mint. 

“No,” Tim agrees. He can feel strands of Martin’s hair touch his forehead. “But that’s not an answer.”

Martin’s gaze flickers down to his lips and then up to his eyes again. “No,” he says, “no it’s not.”

“Martin,” Tim whispers. “Do you want me to kiss you?”

Martin doesn’t answer. Instead, he moves closer still and presses his lips to Tim’s. Around them, the background chatter of the people outside of the door melds into a monotone drone. Martin puts a hand on Tim’s waist, and Tim surrenders to the buzzing static in his head. 

–

In their cramped, shared office Sasha smiles at them all too knowingly when they finally come back. Tim can’t even find it within himself to scowl at her. 

–

“Are you guys sleeping together?” Sasha asks him, casual and unbothered. She’s stirring her coffee with a spoon, clink of metal to porcelain, sloosh of liquid against porcelain. Thud of porcelain against wood, when she sets it down on the desk. 

Tim chokes on his coffee. “No,” he sputters out. “Sasha. No.”

Sasha nods thoughtfully. “How do you feel about that?”

Tim sets his coffee down, then. “I don’t,” he says. “We did kiss, okay, but that’s all, and that’s all it should be.”

“Right,” Sasha says, entirely unconvinced. “Want to watch a movie?” 

“Right now?”

“Yeah,” Sasha says, and then smiles, conspiratorial, “since we’re quitting anyway.”

And that _is_ a plan they’d made, isn’t it? Not an act of revenge. Just knowing your worth. It’d made so much sense, then, but now Tim thinks about Martin, who just a few days ago had gotten too drunk for his own good and told him all about his CV, the complete lack of experience he has beyond this place, the complete lack of relevant education he has, and he wonders about him. About leaving him behind. Strange. 

“Tim,” Sasha says. “Movie?”

“Yeah,” Tim replies, “yeah, okay. What do you want to watch?”

And Sasha, familiar, important Sasha smiles at him, and Tim wonders about loyalty, and what matters, and smiles, and swears he won’t ruin this friendship. 

–

Outside the building Martin stands where Tim usually goes to have his smoke breaks. 

“Hey,” Tim says, “whatcha doing?”

Martin offers him a lopsided grin. “Just waiting for you,” he says, and then he blushes, although his expression doesn’t change. Tim’s heart skips a beat. 

“Oh?” he says, “why’s that?”

Martin’s face doesn’t drop, but he does fidget nervously. “Oh, um. I just wanted to say hi.”

“Hi,” Tim says. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to sound disinterested. Just,” he gestures at the building vaguely, “y’know, work. My brain’s turning into mush, I feel.”

Martin smiles at him. “It’s weird in there, isn’t it? Sometimes I swear it feels like something’s watching me from the walls. Or like something’s always just, there. Looking over my shoulder.”

“Yeah,” Tim says. “I know exactly what you mean.”

And he does. He wonders if it’s just lately that it’s been like that, or if the stress of whatever nonsense Elias is pulling now is getting to him. Maybe it’s getting to all of them. He thinks he’s heard Sasha say the same, before.

“You don’t think Elias has cameras, do you? Hidden in there?” Martin asks in a rush, like he’s been thinking about this for a long time now. 

And Tim hadn’t thought about that, specifically, but – God, wouldn’t that be the cherry on top? Wouldn’t that be just perfect? Anger flares within him for a second, and then he pushes it down, forcibly, on purpose. Deep breaths. Elias is an asshole, but he probably wouldn’t do _that_.

“Listen,” he says instead, “me and Sasha – we’re thinking about quitting. Do you – we could all do it, together.”

Martin goes very quiet, then. Tim can see the cogs turning and whirring and clunking in his head, and when he finally speaks it’s in a quiet, unsure voice again.

“Maybe,” he says. “It’s just –”

“Just, don’t lie on your resume this time,” Tim interrupts, “just list this place. You’ve worked here, you know? They don’t have to know the rest. I know nobody’s called you out yet but don’t try your luck twice. You got this, alright?”

Martin puts his hands in his pockets. He chews on his lip. Tim wants to tell him to stop. “Okay,” Martin says, though he sounds unconvinced. “I’ll think about it.”

“Okay,” Tim parrots back. “Uh, I have to go now,” he says apologetically. “Gotta catch a train.”

Martin nods and waves a hand. “Yeah, yeah, alright, go catch your train.” 

Tim wants to kiss him on the cheek. It feels like it’d be patronizing, vaguely, and it’s also – crossing boundaries. Too much. They’d kissed. That’s it. Not that kind of a relationship. 

(Yet, says the voice in his head. Never, says Tim back.)

“Hey, Tim?” Martin calls after him when he’s already a few dozen meters away. Tim turns around, questioning look on his face, and Martin smiles, unsure but slowly widening –

“Thank you. For telling me.”

Something about that grows tendrils and squeezes around Tim’s heart. Something tender and sweet. “Of course,” Tim says, “I didn’t want to leave you out of it.”

And Martin, sweet Martin, smiles wide and genuine, and Tim wants to kiss him, or, worse, ask him to go home with him. 

–

“What are we doing,” Tim sighs against Martin’s lips. It’s barely a half-question. The door isn’t locked. Sasha’s coming back sooner or later. Probably sooner.

“I think it’s kind of obvious,” Martin says, and kisses him again, just a quick closed-mouthed peck. Snarky bastard.

“Martin,” he says. It comes out a little muffled. 

“_Tim_,” Martin says back. He leans back, and watches Tim follow him with an amused glint in his eyes. “We’re having fun.”

Tim looks at him, properly, then. “Okay,” he says, “don’t get me wrong, I _am_ having fun, but if we’re doing,” waves his hand, “_this_, I don’t want it to be just _having fun_.”

Martin deflates oddly, then. “What, then?” he asks, small. Tim leans closer, and right before kissing his lips again he thinks better of it, and kisses his cheek instead. 

“How about I take you on a date?”

Martin bristles. “We don’t have to _date_ to kiss,” he says. Defensive. Guarded. Tim wonders about that.

“No,” Tim agrees, “but if we’re going to kiss, like, more than this, I want to take you out first.”

Martin considers this for a long minute. His eyes flicker around the room. “Fine,” he says eventually, “take me out, then.”

–

The restaurant isn’t upscale, per se, but it’s definitely on the upper part of the scale of what Tim would usually be willing to spend on a first date.

Martin studies the menu with the reverence of a priest in a bible shop. Or something. Tim doesn’t really know what to compare it to. Page to page. Thoughtful furrow of brow. 

“Did you see they make all their pasta in house, including the dried stuff?” Martin says, finally. He slaps the menu shut with a firm resolution. “That’s kind of cool.”

“Don’t they all do that?” Tim asks. “The more expensive places, at least.”

“No,” Martin says. “Although I guess a lot of them do, with the fresh pasta. Not sure about dried. I don’t see it much. Did you decide yet?” 

“Oh,” Tim says, suddenly flustered, “yeah. I’m ready.”

So Martin orders spaghetti with seafood in tomato sauce, and Tim orders lasagna that comes in a cute single-serving sized casserole dish, and a bottle of wine for the two of them. The corners of Martin’s mouth twitch towards a smile when Tim hurries to pour him a glass. 

“Wow,” he says, all amusement. “You’re spoiling me.”

“I’m just being _nice_ –”

“Mhm,” Martin agrees, and takes his glass into his hand. “Is it rude to drink before you get your food?”

“Probably,” Tim says, and takes a sip. Martin smiles, eyebrows raised, and Tim smiles back. In the dim, classy lighting Martin’s eyes seem to glimmer. Tim looks away, and pretends he doesn’t realize he’s blushing.

–

They don't _need_ to date. They _shouldn’t_ date. They split the bill and kiss goodnight, and Tim wonders if they’re going to, anyway. 

–

“I thought you weren’t going to do anything else,” Sasha says. She doesn’t sound unimpressed, so Tim judges himself for her. 

“Yeah,” he says. “I know.”

Sasha puts her cold feet in Tim’s lap. “You know it doesn’t matter, right?”

“What do you mean?”

Sasha gestures vaguely at the room around them. “Just. There’s no imbalance. Neither of you has power over the other person. Who cares? Elias? _Jon?_”

“Jon would care,” Tim protests. He leaves out the _if I was a worse person I could get him fired by telling Elias about his CV. I could ruin his life._

“Would he notice, though?” 

“No,” Tim admits. Sasha grins. 

“Right,” she says. “So do whatever you want.”

––

_Whatever he wants_ always seems to turn into kissing, and kissing at work at that. 

Tim pulls back and their lips detach with a wet pop. Martin whines and tries to kiss him again immediately, but Tim pulls back properly and goes “hold on, hold on, hold on.”

Martin whines for real then, hurt and low, and Tim smiles at him. “What’s wrong?” Martin asks despite his whining. 

“Just,” Tim says, “it’s late. We should,” and it’s getting hard to focus with Martin looking at him like that, “we should go somewhere else. After work.”

“Somewhere else?” Martin repeats. 

“My place,” Tim says, “or yours. Doesn’t matter.”

The corners of Martin’s mouth twitch. “Mine’s a mess. Let’s go to yours.”

“Okay,” Tim says. Like it’s easy. Like it’s obvious.

–

Martin kisses like he knows what he’s doing – not just in Tim’s flat, in his bed, just in general. He has all the confidence a man could possibly need, and Tim, who usually is the confident one, the one to go _let me,_ the one who usually calls others _baby_ or _darling_ or _sweetheart_ lets him put his hands behind his neck, cup his head, lets him push him around and nip at his neck.

“What are we doing?” Tim asks while Martin kisses down his neck. Martin pulls away to look at him, unimpressed, and goes “again? I thought we already had that discussion.”

And they haven’t. Not at all. They’ve vaguely danced around that discussion, a little bit, but they haven’t had any semblance of a relationship discussion, and even if they’re going more specific, they have not discussed what they’re actually here for. 

It’s implied, sure – Tim lying on the bed, naked, Martin on top of him, still in his underwear but, heavy and present, how he’d led him straight into the bedroom instead of offering tea or coffee or food. But –

“No,” Tim says, “we haven’t.”

Martin’s mouth twists into a little frown that Tim leans up to kiss. “Don’t pout,” he says. “What are we doing tonight?” 

“Isn’t it obvious,” Martin says, but it’s not really a question, and he doesn’t sound as sure as his word choice tries to imply. He looks a little uncomfortable. 

“Martin,” Tim says, voice soft. “I’m sorry, but we do need to talk about this before we have sex, if we’re going to have sex. What do you want?”

“Fine,” Martin says, “um. I like kissing. I like,” and he presses his face against Tim’s chest, “I like making out, and um, oral. Giving. I want to suck your cock –”

“I want that, too,” Tim cuts him off, a little too eagerly, maybe, but he has a feeling if he lets Martin talk any longer he might stop altogether. And besides, he really, _really_ does want it.

“Okay. Can we get to the part where we do that?” Martin asks, and there’s a little smile on his face again. Tim kisses him, neck straining, and Martin kisses back, eager and sweet. 

“Yeah,” Tim agrees, and it comes out a little bit muffled against Martin’s lips. Vibration reverb. He likes that. 

Martin pulls back then so that he can kiss down his neck. Tim keeps his hands in his hair the whole way down, and when Martin kneels at the end of the bed he bends his legs at the knees to make room for Martin between them.

“You’re beautiful,” Martin says quietly, and Tim doesn’t quite blush. 

“Thanks,” he says, “I try.”

“Shut up,” Martin says, and his voice is fond, and Tim pets his hair, gentle, slow. He feels a little hazy. 

Martin settles between his legs, languid and slow. He spits into his hand, and it’s disgusting, but he wraps his hand around Tim’s cock and his grip is firm and just the right tightness around him and Tim suddenly couldn't care less. He must have made a noise because Martin looks up at him, smug and smiling, and Tim can’t even find it in himself to frown at him. 

“Please,” Tim says half-heartedly. Martin gives him a few good strokes in response, and Tim’s hips move with them without his permission. 

“I thought you were going to use your mouth,” he says, and there’s a whine in his voice that he’s not proud of, and Martin giggles. For a second he thinks Martin’s going to torture him for longer, but then he moves closer and sinks his mouth down onto him down to where he’s got his hand wrapped around the length of him. 

Tim doesn’t moan, or maybe he does. Martin’s mouth is warm and wet and tight and every time he moves his hand he moves his mouth down with the motion of it, a few centimeters down with every stroke, until his fist is wrapped around the root and his lips rest just above the top of his own thumb. His tongue moves graceful and firm, finds every vein and ridge and textured patch, and it’s relentless in its exploration. 

He’s beautiful. Tim’s so hard he feels like he might die, suddenly, and Martin blinks slowly and deliberately up at him, those long eyelashes, his red mouth, and then he does _something_, just a little twisting motion of his mouth, and Tim can feel his cock twitch in his mouth. 

“Oh fuck,” he says, and Martin does it again, and again, and the third time Tim can’t stop himself from bucking up into his mouth, and then he’s going “sorry, sorry,” but Martin pulls off and breathless, raspy goes “no, please do that again.”

And then, before Tim can respond, he sucks his cock back into his mouth again, and when Tim bucks up a little bit, experimental and unsure, Martin moans theatrically around him. If he didn’t feel so good around him he might smile. 

But Martin takes the task deadly seriously. He holds his hand where it is, wrapped around the bottom third of his cock, tight and moving ever so slightly, and every time something he does with his mouth makes Tim’s grip in his hair tighten he takes more in his mouth until he pulls his hand away completely. 

The tip of his cock hits the back of Martin’s throat and he can see that his eyes water, then, but he doesn’t gag, and he doesn’t pull away. Tim tugs on his hair, just lightly, and Martin closes his eyes and sucks, gentle, soft, and it’s so good. Tim cards his fingers through Martin’s hair, and he tries to be slow and gentle but he feels like he’s about to snap like a frozen twig. His fingernails scrape against skin. He tries to still his fingers. He doesn’t succeed.

Martin stays like that for a little bit. Just there. Sucking a little bit. His tongue moves however much it can, flexing and licking, and Tim breathes hard and tries to stop shaking. Martin, unhappy with the fact that he is no longer pulling on his hair, somehow manages to take him even deeper (and he’d really thought he’d taken him to the root already, he really had –), and then he pulls back, lips and mouth tight, and then he slams back down. 

Tim makes a noise he’s sure sounds like it’s been strangled out of him, and his fingers tighten in Martin’s hair and his hips buck up, almost violent in the speed and strength. Martin moans, and the vibration, tip to root, feels like it travels all the way up Tim’s spinal cord and into his brain.

It’s too much. He taps Martin on the shoulder with three fingers, and Martin pulls back slightly, just so that only the tip remains in his mouth, hand coming back to work the rest of his length, and Tim doesn’t _black out_ or _break_, but when he comes he _does_ see stars burst behind his eyelids. 

Martin doesn’t swallow but he does lick his hand clean, and it’s _unfair,_ because not only can Tim see the way it makes Martin’s dick twitch in his boxers he can feel his own softening cock try to do the same. It’s too soon. It just twitches uselessly, and Tim hisses at the feeling. 

Martin looks up at him, eyes sparkling, and says “hi.”

“You’re so good,” Tim sighs, “come here.” 

Martin shuffles up the bed obediently, and Tim sits up. He guides Martin into his lap, and then he helps his underwear down so that the waistband is around his thighs. His dick juts out, beautiful and hard, and Tim thinks he might just plainly lose his mind if he doesn’t get to touch it soon.

“Can I use my hands on you?” he asks, and Martin nods, fast, and Tim kisses his neck for it. 

His cock is heavy and hot and good and so hard in his hand. Tim can almost feel his mouth watering at the feel of it. His grip is a little dry and the angle is a little weird but he gets to work anyway. 

Almost every touch gets a whimper out of Martin, and every whimper gets him a kiss from Tim. He feels indulgent, now, after his own release. Martin thrusts up into his hand eagerly, the tip of his cock leaking just from sucking him, just from being touched like this, and Tim uses his thumb to catch some of it, spreads it over his length where he jerks him. 

“You’re so gorgeous,” he says, and Martin buries his head in the dip between his neck and shoulder. He twists his hand on an upstroke, when Martin whimpers throatily he adds “and you sound so good.”

Martin bites his shoulder the same way Tim had held onto his hair and bucked up and Tim doesn’t know what to do with his other hand other than hold him there by the back of his head. It feels good. Right. He feels close and good there, and the noises he makes when Tim thumbs over the tip of his cock are delicious enough that he could pick them from the air and eat them. 

“Tim,” Martin says, voice all low and sweet. 

“You almost there?”

“Uh huh,” and it’s more a whine than a word, and Tim kisses the top of his head. He smells like shampoo and sweat there. 

His movements get jerky and unsteady and Tim quickens his pace until Martin starts begging. “Please, please, please,” he says, voice higher by the syllable, and Tim strokes him, steady and fast, and whispers praise into his ear as well as he can from this angle. 

When he comes it’s a long, drawn out thing. His whole body shakes. “There you go,” Tim says, “good boy.” Martin whimpers in response, and something about it makes Tim’s heart jump with affection. 

He works him through it slow and gentle until Martin bats his hand away. “Thank you,” he says quietly, voice all tired, and Tim goes “no, thank _you_” and then Martin starts laughing, and Tim does as well, even if he’s unsure what they’re laughing about. 

“What’s funny?” he asks when Martin’s giggles die down. Martin buries his face in Tim’s shoulder. “I don’t know,” he says, “just. Us thanking each other like that.”

“It’s _polite_!”

“Well, yeah! I wasn’t saying it’s not –”

“Right, so –”

“Okay, okay!” Martin says, head rising back up again, “thank you. Really.”

Tim smiles at him. “Well, yeah. Return the favour and whatnot.”

Martin leans in to kiss him, and it should probably be disgusting, but he kisses back anyway.

–

He stays the night. The next morning he leaves before breakfast, and Tim thinks that’s probably for the best. He wonders how long they’re going to pretend they don’t want more than whatever this that they’ve been doing is. Martin’s shape disappears down the street and Tim watches him go until he can’t pick out the back of his jacket from the crowd anymore.


End file.
